DAY 150: Being silly at a tattoo convention

Dave pretending to study a bottle.

WHEN I ask people what the bird I’m getting inked on my arm should be holding between its feet, suggestions range from a chip, to a worm it has pecked to death, another bird’s head it won in a fight to the death, Nick Cave’s head dangled by its moustache, the same bird holding a smaller version of itself which is holding a smaller version of itself which is holding a smaller version of itself which is holding a smaller version of itself…

Thankfully, by the time I take my arm to Dave Undead, I’ve got it all sorted in my head. Custom king Dave beats off hoards of flapping fanboys with one arm to etch out a beautiful bird holding a compass that points north (since things are no longer heading south) with the other.

It’s a bit of a fiddly job, which leaves three hours to discuss how to tell just by looking who has blood that smells like cabbage, and whether or not there are any men who don’t have a problem with their girlfriends having tattoos, because an awful lot of them seem to whinge about it after a few sherries when seemingly they were cool about it.

We also talk about Hey Man, Now You’re Really Living, which is when he says I should do something epic on landmark days, and I say, well, this is Day 150, maybe you could etch a little 150 into a feather or something, and he says, well, I was thinking more like a speech bubble.

An aside: This suddenly reminds me that my friend Lindsay, on whom Dave has inked a mythical b-owl – half bat, half owl – warned me that I should watch closely if I don’t want my tattoo to end up with a little cock and balls.

Any stupid suggestion like this is like a red rag to a bull, so on goes the speech bubble. It does break the cardinal rule of getting tattooed – Don’t Get Anything That Begs A Question – something that someone with four cover-ups should know by now, but when such an urge takes you, what can you do?

“I always say I was just being silly,” Dave offers of unwanted “why did you get that?” queries.

Keeper? Yes.